Monster in the Mirror
by Yanagi Uxinta
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring the minds of some of the Night World characters and how they see themselves, from different times in their lives. Chapter 1: Rashel, Chapter 2: James, Chapter 3: Gary/Angel, Chapter 4: Quinn, Chapter 5: Maya.
1. Rashel

Okay, this is my first Night World fic, the idea for which struck me while I was updating my profile. I then proceeded to write the whole thing in one sitting, then rewrite it when Word had a fit and shut down, deleting everything. I prefer the new version though, so it was worth the wasted time.  
Rashel may be slightly out of character here, since she's only twelve and not as mature as she is in the book _The Chosen _(yes, this is acting as a disclaimer. All rights belong to L. J. Smith). I only hope that it seems a likely characterisation of a younger version of her.  
With all that said, I hope you enjoy it!

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'_I don't stay at schools more than one year at a time. I live with foster families, and I usually get myself sent to a new city every year. That way I stay ahead of the vampires.'_ – Rashel Jordan.

She was surprised at how easy it had been, really. After all, he'd never expected a twelve year old girl to have a stake. He'd never expected that she would plunge it into his chest, calm as could be, the instant he grabbed her in the dark, deserted warehouse. He only knew he'd fallen into the trap – with the little girl as both bait and executioner – when he'd looked into her fierce green eyes and seen the survivor there.  
He'd died with a snarl on his face.  
Rashel had put a lot of thought into this; her first kill. She'd watched for the signs, scoped out the area, made frequent appearances there so that the vampire could see her as an easy, reliable target. In her mental walkthroughs of every scenario she could think of, every single one had ended with her bittersweet memory; that would evolve into her alias in the future.  
'_This kitten has claws.'  
_She'd said it, too, when she dropped the body to the ground, before she doused it in gasoline from a water bottle in her bag and set light to it. A gang of teenagers with nothing better to do would walk through this very building later that night. They would find no sign of the vampire, other than a pile of warm ash and the fading stink of burnt flesh.  
Rashel left the empty bottle there, in the fire. The stake she would toss into some bushes on the way home. The nice family she was staying with would fuss over her when she walked in at quarter to twelve at night, dressed all in black, the simple balaclava she'd worn stuffed in her bag. She'd put them off with cool assurances that she was fine, she would shower away the dirt of being so close to a vampire, she would go into her room and shut the door.  
Rashel sat on her bed, knees drawn up, arms hugging them, her head resting on her knees and her black hair forming a curtain around her, dripping tears onto the covers.  
It was only now, when she was in the relative safety of a house, with the noise of a family downstairs drifting up soothingly, that the shock was setting in. It was one thing to imagine stabbing a leech; quite another to do it.  
It wasn't the actual kill that scared her; it was her utter lack of emotion when she did. She was desperate to be good enough; to hunt down and kill the vampire responsible for tearing her life apart when she was five years old, but she didn't want to turn into a monster in order to do so.  
Not for the first time, Rashel wanted someone to talk to about everything, someone who would understand and wouldn't think she was crazy. She told her story at every house she stayed in; of the vampire at the carnival that had killed her mom and stolen her friend. None of them believed her; they thought her so traumatised by the experience that she'd made up a ludicrous story to avoid dealing with the truth. That didn't bother Rashel too much; it just meant that they didn't know anything. But tonight she wanted someone to reassure her; tell her it was okay to react like this, that she wouldn't turn into the monster she so hated.  
She had nobody.  
A tiny hiccup of fear shook her shoulders. She was Rashel Jordan, twelve years old, and tonight she'd killed someone.  
'_I don't know if I can do this.'_ The thought squeezed tears from her eyes, but she bit her lip against any other sounds. It terrified her; that she would become a copy of the monster that had killed her mom. If she did; did she have a right to kill him?  
The thought chilled her and scared her. Without that goal, what was she? She had dedicated herself to this, ever since she'd watched her aunt's house burn.  
But she dreaded the day that she would look in the mirror and see a heartless killer staring impassively back.  
It made her feel sick, horrible, _lost,_ but it left her with one thought. Could she kill again, despite that, and _not_ lose herself?  
The question calmed her slightly, and she found herself digging deep into her soul, past the terrified child, past the cold, uncaring facade of a girl, right to the core, where she could answer herself truthfully.  
Yes. Yes, she could. Her reaction to killing scared her, but this was only the first one. She was prepared now; she'd cope better from now on. She would fight with honour; strike only when the vampire leapt for her throat. That way she would anchor herself.  
Slowly, like a steadily banking fire, Rashel felt her resolve filter back.  
Straightening up, she brusquely dashed away the tear tracks on her cheeks, and clambered into bed. Tomorrow, she'd get herself sent to another house, in another city. She'd tell her new guardians her story, and they would pause, look at each other as if deciding something.  
They were vampire hunters, and they would tell her about the Night World.


	2. James

**Okay, I'd originally planned for this to be a one-shot, but ideas started drifting around for other characters in the series, so I eventually came up with this. I wrote this in one sitting, without the book to refer to (I'd lent it to a friend), so if events are in the wrong order or the characterisation's off, I'm sorry – and please tell me if it is, so I can improve the fic! With that, enjoy this little glimpse into James Rasmussen's mind. I'm hoping you can guess when in the storyline this is set.**

**Disclaimer: all characters and settings belong to L. J. Smith.**

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_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

James slammed the phone down and ran his hands through his hair, then back down to cover his face as he slumped in the chair. She wouldn't even answer him now.

Damn her stubbornness. True, she wouldn't be Poppy without it, but at least before she would be reasonable after a while. Now, her stubbornness and irrationality would kill her.

Kill her partially, anyway.

If he'd thought that the cancer stealing her away was bad, he would take that, suffer her funeral a thousand times, before seeing her become an empty husk that still moved and rotted and killed.

Unbidden, a gentle look and sweet smile drifted into his mind, the details slightly hazy with time. It was immediately replaced by a grey, slack face, skin shrunken so that it clutched the skull beneath, eyes flat yet bulging out of the revealed sockets.

James nearly knocked the chair over as he sprang to his feet, the rapid movement dispelling the old memory, only made worse when his imagination made the figure even smaller, the remaining hair dulled red and curly, the dead eyes only remnants of the fiery green they used to be.

Bleakly, James considered calling again. Privately, he knew it would do no good – he'd either be ignored, or told that Poppy didn't want to speak to him.

If only he'd thought, when he confronted Phil. If only he'd been more aware while he was with Poppy; he could have made the scene look completely innocent – Phil still wouldn't have liked it, but he would have had no reason to blurt out James' lie while Poppy was irrational from the unbalanced blood in her body. If only, if only, if only.

Sometimes, he wished that the Night World was free to do what it liked, damn the humans. It would make this situation so much easier – he would be free to explain everything to Poppy's mother and step-father and her idiot brother; make them see that he was trying to save their little girl, after a fashion, that this was the _only_ way. Explain that if they didn't, not only would they lose her, she may kill them too.

For a single moment, James seriously considered it. Why shouldn't he? It would save her – and they'd have to believe him, if he showed his teeth. Heck, he could even bite Phil to prove the point. Not the most pleasant experience, for either of them, but he'd do it to save Poppy.

But reality never let idle wishing get too out of hand. If he revealed the Night World to them, they would be killed, along with James and Poppy, if they were discovered. He couldn't condemn a whole family, especially not Poppy's. She wouldn't forgive him, even once she was recovered enough to realise her own mind.

James drifted blankly from room to room, his eyes only focussing when he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked drawn, ill. He knew he hadn't been feeding well – he'd been too sick with worry to think about it until he realised that he was gasping for air. Even then, he'd go out and take enough to sustain him for a few hours, then hurry back to his apartment to call Poppy again. At this rate, he'd run himself into a grave before she succumbed to either the warring bloods in her veins or her illness.

Watching his own empty eyes, he slowly realised something.

He looked utterly beaten.

He felt a flicker of defiance in his chest, a spark of fire that was reflected in his eyes. If he gave up, Poppy died or became a ghoul. And he couldn't let that happen. He could not stand by apathetically and watch her – his _soulmate_ – fall apart and disappear. That was why he started to turn her, wasn't it? To save her from herself; from her own treacherous body. Now it wasn't her body that was failing her, it was her mind. It was still Poppy fighting Poppy.

But how to get to her? How to make her listen, or stop her from pushing him away long enough to get his blood into her?

She still trusted her own family; of course she did. Still let them care for her, bring her food and drink that she didn't need or want. Phil looked after her the most, James knew, and not just because he got a vague sense of Poppy's thoughts about her brother through that metaphysical silver chord that connected them. When he wasn't calling her or drinking just enough blood to keep himself on his feet, he drove around their house, just close enough to monitor the minds of the people inside it. Poppy and Phil's thoughts stood out the most; he could hear them several streets away, whilst the adults could only be heard from maybe two streets away. James wasn't sure why, but was grateful for the fact – it made keeping tabs on Poppy a lot easier. He knew Poppy was vibrant, always had been – and Phil was her twin, so they must have something other than their eyes in common. Maybe one of those similarities was loud, clear thoughts that would make either of them powerful telepaths, were they vampires.

In any case, Phil was taking a lot more responsibility than before – he frequently went out to find some of his sister's more unusual dietary requests. All red. Most liquid at some point. It would be easy to get hold of Phil – grab him as he was leaving a store. If he could get the guy to understand, then surely, _surely_ Phil could talk Poppy into being at least semi-compliant?

Gradually, the light filtered back into James' eyes – they were determined now, not hopeless. He was the one responsible for this, and he was going to fix it. He wouldn't let his Poppy become something twisted and dead, not like he had with Miss Emma. He couldn't fix things then, and had lived with that for the rest of his life, but he could now, and he would, even if he had to break into her room and force his blood down her throat. Once he was sure she wouldn't become a ghoul, if she still hated him, he would leave. The vampire blood would fade, given time, and she'd be free to die of her illness. But if she came to her senses, and listened to him, believed him, forgave him...then he'd be there to help her with every step of her new life.


	3. Gary

Hey readers. As usual, this was done in one sitting. I've looked over it, but if you see any errors, please let me know :) The idea has been running around my head for a while, but I've only recently had the time and the spark of inspiration to write it down tonight. Hopefully it's alright and seems in character...although we tend to see a more jokey, mischievous side of Angel/Gary in 'Dark Angel'.

I'm putting a warning in this fic, as it deals with the death of child, which I know some readers may find upsetting - if you do, please either hit the back button or read with caution. Thank you, and thanks for reading if you do.

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to L. J. Smith.**

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His eyes keep darting to the rear view mirror, the usually piercing violet irises appearing blurred and out of focus. As they had done countless times since he'd got into his car, his eyes then flickered past his own reflection to glance in the back seat.

Still there.

His gaze hopped back to the road, his fingers drumming erratic patterns on the steering wheel, his ears buzzing with the volume of the radio. The lines in the road weaved drunkenly, as thought trying to avoid the spotlight of his headlights. He frowned at them disapprovingly, then the expression melted as his eyes once again jolted to the reflection of the back seat.

Still there. Still there.

Why...?

His nostrils flared with the deep, calming breath that shook as he exhaled. To distract himself, he focussed on the speed dial, trying to keep it set on the little red line. The ghostly twin of the dial intercepted its physical counterpart, however, and he laughed. They were fighting over the line. How silly.

The strained giggle died to a whine in his throat, and he once again glanced at the darkened, empty road ahead of him, then to the pair of eyes in the mirror, and the other pair staring at him from the back seat.

He shook himself, sitting straight and glaring out of the windscreen. The trees flew by, their snow-laden branches nothing more than silent, highlighted fingers reaching for him as he sped by.

They wanted him to stop, to turn round. Put things right.

They knew what he'd done. Those trees were his only witnesses; his only confidants.

Them and that damned dog.

His breath hitched in the back of his throat, in grief, panic, hysteria...he didn't know.

All the while, he could feel her gaze pressing heavily against the back of his skull.

The scent of burnt wool, hair and skin still seared his nose.

Baring his teeth at the stench, he leant down and wound the window down, resting his elbow on the door, the icy wind stinging some sensation back into him. Winter's vengeful bite almost hurt.

Good. He deserved to be hurt.

But the sound of the wind rushing past his window brought back the dull _whoosh_ of superheated air and flames as his spell went wild.

Shaking, he quickly wound the window up again, trapping himself back in his metal prison.

The radio grated on his nerves. Sending it a distracted, angered glare, he hit the volume button. Missed. Frowning, he tried again, and only succeeded in changing stations. White noise filled the car.

His temper lost, he slammed his fist against the console repeatedly, sparks leaping from his fingers to sear the radio until, in a choked burst of static, the radio died.

His own screams returned to keep him company instead.

"_No, no, nononono!"_

"_What did you do, what did you do, you stupid human? You stupid girl, you little, little girl..."_

"_Come on, I'll take you to the hospital, come on now..."_

"_I've got you, it's okay. We're going to hospital now, it'll be okay..."_

"_Please, just please be okay..."_

Pathetic. Hopeless. Talking to a corpse.

He whimpered in remembered grief when he looked in the mirror again.

She sat there, watching him.

Flat, misty eyes staring at him, the skin around them warped and red. The charred, red wool muffler around her throat covered the lower half of her face. He'd pulled it up so she wouldn't get cold.

Finally meeting her eyes, he whispered, utterly absorbed in what he was doing. The car started to drift to the side.

"Please, I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry, little girl, I'm so sorry..." He babbled, his partially focussed eyes blurring with tears. The colours in the mirror fogged; violet eyes and chalk white skin and the grey of the upholstering. No red muffler. No puckered, pink scars.

Because, of course, he'd already buried her. It was only his own intoxicated, guilty mind filling the space in the back seat. And of course, he couldn't forgive himself, so neither could she.

With a soft gasp that was closer to a sob, he wrenched his eyes away, lifting them to look out of the window.

The tree was right in front of him.

He wrenched the wheel, but the snow and ice betrayed him. The car skidded, slamming sideways into the sturdy trunk, the driver's door taking the brunt of the force.

At eighty miles an hour, he didn't really stand a chance.

Still, Gary Fargeon opened his eyes in the dark wreck of his car, his breath rasping painfully in his crushed chest, blood bubbling in his punctured lungs. He tried to speak, but blood filled his throat. He coughed to clear it, and a choked gurgle replaced his agonised groan.

Apart from the pain of his loose ribs shifting in his chest, the pain wasn't as bad as he expected when he relaxed. Maybe thanks to all the booze he'd downed, trying to forget, to turn the clock back a few hours. Just a few hours.

He tried to turn his head, but it wouldn't move properly. Grey spots burst in his vision, and started to burn at the edges of his vision.

He wasn't stupid. Gary could feel the strength ebbing out of his ruined body, and knew that this road would be deserted for the next few hours, at least. He knew he was dying.

And that...didn't matter. It was right, in a way. A life for a life.

Some snide voice tried to say that it was hardly a fair deal; the life of a powerful, promising witch for a pathetic human's, but he cut it short savagely. That human was a little girl, and because of him, she was dead. He hadn't told anyone. He'd just wasted his last few hours, drinking and partying the night away, as though he hadn't just buried a child, all alone in the woods somewhere.

At least she wasn't alone anymore. They could stay here together, right?

With a low groan, Gary gritted his teeth and shifted his head as far as it would go, lifting his eyes to the mirror for the last time. It was cracked, but he could still see the eyes of a grieving monster in them. And, behind his, her. Not charred, not dead, not accusatory. Just sat there, alive, whole, looking at the damage, her car door crumpled but not quite touching her.

She hadn't been hurt, then. That was good. He didn't want to hurt her anymore.

Her. Her. He didn't even know her name. That was...wrong, somehow. And now he would never know.

He wished he did. He wished there was some way for him to find out her name, if there was anything...after.

His breathing was heavy now, laboured. He closed his eyes, fighting back the pain. His voice was nothing more than a strangled, guttural whisper, but he could hear his own words. That was enough.

"Please, tell me...her name. Just...let me know. So I can...apologise when...I see her," His breath sighed out again in relief. He'd asked. He'd just have to wait and see if he was answered.

The paramedics pronounced him dead on the scene, four hours later at half past six in the morning. The wreckage had been seen by an early commuter, driving to work. Their two stories were the main ones in the local news. His death was forgotten quickly by the masses; but Paula Belizer's disappearance lingered. People didn't forget a lost child, even when the official police search was dropped.

No one ever linked the dead boy in the crashed car with the little girl who went missing the same night. Not until Gillian. But by then, Gary had woken. He'd gotten his wish; he knew the little girl's name. But his last few memories of life were...hazy. He didn't remember. All he knew was that he was trapped in this damned field, scared, alone, and guilty as all hell. He'd had enough time to forget his internal conflict at his death; he'd adopted his old view. Night people were superior; he knew that.

But underneath it all, there was that lingering little voice.

The one that had cried for the little human girl before he ever knew her name.

The one that had wanted to take her to hospital when it was far too late.

The one that had felt the justice in his own death when he hit that tree.

That grief-stricken voice would murmur to him that _that_ little human girl was worth ten times his dead, witch-child hide.

It took his cousin, as stubborn as he was, to bring that voice out. And when he lifted his hand, as though to touch her hand in thanks and sorrow, he stared into her eyes and saw his reflection staring back. And for the first time since Paula ran into that circle, he didn't see a monster staring back. He just saw a tired, relieved, grateful person; someone finally ready to move on.

And looking back, maybe he even saw an angel.


	4. Quinn

Hey everyone! Here's chapter four, and Quinn this time. I owe the character choice to lamia vampress, who also helped me brainstorm the idea, so thank you lamia!

I'm not as certain about this chapter as the others - I think because I've caught Quinn as he's starting to become a tad unhinged/Mad Hatter-esque, as opposed to Rashel and James, who were fully rational, or Gary, who was out of his mind with drink and guilt from the offset. As a result, I don't know how well I've captured Quinn's character, distracted as he is. I hope I've done a good job so that you all enjoy reading this, though! As ever, feedback is appreciated, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to L. J. Smith.**

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The shadows welcomed him as he bounded out of the cellar; hiding him from human sight and muffling any sound he made. All vampires – and some vampire hunters – could blend into the darkness, but Quinn could enshroud himself in it as easily as throwing a coat over his shoulders.

Could the girl in the cellar use the same trick?

With a silent snarl, Quinn chased the thoughts of her out of his mind until he was several miles outside of Boston; surrounded by the remnants of the forest that used to cover the land and far from any vampire hunters or distractions.

Or both, as this girl turned out to be.

The run had only taken a few minutes, despite crossing most of the city and reducing it to a smudge of dim colour and light in the distance. The whole time, Quinn had had to divert his thoughts from one topic to another, all because of one human girl whose face he'd not got the chance to see.

Why did that bother him so much? She was human; vermin. Why had seeing her face mattered?

Why had _she_ mattered? He should have just killed her and ran. At least that way she wouldn't be in trouble with her hunter friends, though that wouldn't have been a comfort to her.

But...he had tried to kill her. They both had; they'd fought. It should have been to the death, then...

Connection. That was the only way he could describe it. A link had opened between their minds; completely beyond his control.

It had terrified him.

More than Hunter Redfern, more than his crazed father brandishing a stake. Maybe more than becoming a vampire. That, in a way, had been his own fault. He'd been too set on Dove; too stupid to run the instant the word 'vampire' left Hunter's mouth. Not that it would have mattered; the Redfern patriarch would have caught him before Quinn reached the door. He'd also been half out of his mind by then; he'd felt fear, along with grief and denial and hope. Father would fix it.

Instead, he'd tried to destroy his own son; killing Dove in the attempt.

A low keening left him; he shoved the memories away before they could truly start to hurt, even though they'd already made him tremble.

Now, he was fully coherent. Quinn was used to being in control of any situation, or taking control of it almost immediately. When his skin had touched that girl's, that control had been ripped away from him. In spite of his vast mental strength, he'd been unable to tear himself away from that link, and her. It had taken the other vermin returning to break them out of their enforced trance.

Yet...once he'd realised he had no control over it, and had let go...he'd not wanted to break that bond. He'd wanted to know her; to see her.

Quinn had always been able to adapt; it was how he'd survived so long, and gained the reputation he had. So he'd tried to adapt again; simply allowing that temporary madness to take over, but pushing it. Trying, not to pull away, but to delve deeper into her mind. Trying to find her name amidst her panic.

But she had barriers of her own. Not ice, like his, but layers of control and protection, wound around her like the scarf he'd teased loose. He'd lifted away the first few, but beneath them he'd felt more than her surface worry.

She was so, so fragile.

Fragile, but not weak. Not like the other humans.

Everything she did denied it, but inside her layers and walls, she'd been as helpless as a child. Vulnerable. The same thought had occurred to her about him, he'd noticed, but her fear had distracted him from his search. More than finding out who she was, he'd wanted to comfort her; make her feel safe.

Her, a human. Vermin.

That, more than anything, drove him insane. There was no mystical allure about humans; no depth to them. They were scum, fit only to keep vampires alive.

But that girl...

With an irate snarl, Quinn turned and started pacing, ripping his gaze away from Boston's distant lights and instead aiming it at the leaf-strewn ground, though he didn't see it. Instead, maddeningly, all he could see were layers of black cloth and dark, shadowed eyes staring at him.

Kicking a small boulder out of his way, ignoring the way it shattered the sapling a few metres distant, Quinn once again rammed her out of his mind. If he had to stay here til the next century until she stopped haunting him, he would.

But almost as soon as the girl from the cellar vanished, a second face rose from his memory. Small, delicate features, wide brown eyes framed by hair a few shades darker. Dove.

With a wordless cry, Quinn spun and lashed out at a non-existent opponent, as though fighting off his memories.

Why? Why did she remind him of Dove? The girl was a hunter; a fighter. In the few seconds before and during their fight, he'd seen her move with a grace and finesse that many vampires had to work for. She was as sharp and deadly as that sword she carried.

His hand met stone; the rock fractured where he hit it.

So _why_ did she feel so similar to Dove? Dove; a vampire, but gentle, soft. Vulnerable.

Vulnerable. They were both fragile.

Branches broke on his knuckles and blood welled up from the scratches. The sharp pain was enough to distract him, even as his revelation jolted him out of his vicious reverie.

He realised he was taking in great gulps of air, as though exhausted or panicked. With a grimace, he forced his breathing to settle, gritting his teeth as he built up the wall of ice around his heart again.

Slowly, calm settled over him, though it was artificial and temporary. He just needed time to think without her invading his mind or recalling ancient ghosts.

With his thoughts cleared, for now, Quinn stared blankly out towards the city again, planning. He would only torment himself by staying here trying _not_ to think, he realised. But this obsession would pass, in time. If he could, he'd leave the city for a few years; distract himself until he had forgotten. The deal, and the club, stopped him from escaping.

Perhaps...perhaps, if he found her again – saw her in daylight, without her mask – she would leave his thoughts. Find out her name, and the mystery of the girl in the cellar would be solved, and she would stop haunting him. He could try, anyway.

He considered, briefly, returning to the club, but dismissed the idea. He couldn't focus as he was now; already thoughts of her were starting to infiltrate his mind again. He could easily make a slip if he tried to work in this distracted state.

He'd find this girl first, set his mind at ease, then return to help Lily and Ivan. They could manage without him for a few more days.

In the meantime, he'd find his little vampire hunter. He'd learn her name and her face. Maybe he'd kill her – if she refused to leave his thoughts, then perhaps that would grant him some peace. Besides, as a hunter, she deserved to die. As the Cat, he could get a sizeable reward for killing her.

It was only natural, after all. They were meant to destroy each other. She'd understood that, while they were talking.

But could he kill her? What he'd felt in the cellar had been far beyond anything he'd felt with Dove. Indirectly, he'd killed Dove. He didn't know if he could kill the girl in the cellar when she made him feel the way she did.

Well, he'd find out when he found her. And if he couldn't kill her...

Quinn flashed a smile at nothing; barely aware of the wild, unfocussed look in his eyes as he searched the Boston lights, as though to spot the girl from this distance.

If he couldn't kill her outright, he was certain that she would make a fine vampire.


	5. Maya

Hello everyone, it's been a while! Completely my fault, I know, but hopefully this next chapter/story will make up for it. This time we have Queen Monster - who is actually the only one who _deserves_ to be called a monster in this whole fic, but oh well. Eyes of the beholder and all that. Anyway, this is a glimpse of Maya, way back when, when animal skins and bone necklaces were still in fashion. It worried me slightly at just how easy it was to get into character...or at least, I _hope_ it's in character! I'll let you guys decide, however.

As always, **all characters, settings etc. belong to L. J. Smith**, and here's a quick 'Hello!' to anyone from her website who drops by. Thanks to everyone who reads, feedback is always appreciated (even if it's just 'you spelt 'x' wrong!'), and I hope you enjoy this rather twisted character, and my take on her.

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Her reflection finally steadied, the water in the woven willow osier bowl settling completely, allowing her to examine her new face.

The colours were muted – all blacks and greys, though the tree on the opposite side of the bowl was reflected in full colour, but it was enough to tell that she was far paler, bar the blood still dried in rivers down her chin and neck.

She'd already noticed her paleness, though – one look at her hands and arms had shown the change. She was more interested in the structural differences.

Her lips were fuller, that was the first thing to jump out at her. Fuller, and darker – she'd licked the blood off her lips while she made the basket and waited for the water to stop quaking.

Her features were more...defined, she thought. They'd never been shallow, but now her high cheekbones were finely outlined, as was the smooth curve of her jaw. Her eyes seemed to be a little larger, her eyelashes thicker. She'd always had beautiful, clear skin, but now it was flawless. No hint of a freckle, even in the summer sun, no spots, beauty or not.

Her hair, she'd been able to see without the aid of a reflection. Always, it had been thick, long and dark, but now it had an added lustre to it – light seemed to bounce off it, leaving just an imprint of silver or gold to shimmer in the dark waves.

The most curious thing about her new, immortal shape, however, was her teeth.

Stark white, gleaming, perfectly aligned...and sharp. Her canines, she'd noticed in the first few moments after completing the spell, after the last infant's weakest cries had ceased and the blood had left its body, were no longer entirely human. They changed, when probed with her tongue or a startled finger. They could feel as well, which had been an altogether strange sensation until she grew accustomed to it. They were sensitive, lengthening when touched. They were an odd side-effect of her spell, but if they meant she was immortal, then she would happily accept them.

A raised voice made her jump and whirl to her left, wondering who had crept up on her.

Nobody had.

Someone called again, a different voice, and suddenly she realised that the voices were distant. She could just hear far better than before.

A slow, glorious smile spread across her face. Improved hearing – and sight as well, she realised, looking again into the reflection. How else had she been able to pick out the fullness of her lashes in such a poor reflection? How else had she known that there was not the faintest freckle on her face, when all colours were leeched from her in the water?

Her sense of smell was stronger too – she'd been too distracted until now to truly realise it. The smell of the river plants, the pollen of the different flowers, the lingering scent of old blood, still covering her skin and roe-deer tunic.

And...something else. Warmer, fresh, _alive_...an odd musky scent, along with the transferred wisps of grass clinging to a fur coat. Quite small, she could tell – its smell wasn't strong enough for a large creature.

Somehow, her mind was making connections to things she hadn't thought about before. Hadn't she smelt that musk before, far weaker, upon a freshly killed rabbit?

Oh, this new life was too good. She was better than she had been in every single way – more acute senses, more beautiful, faster – her weaving had taken her a quarter of the usual time to make a water-tight basket, and she had always been nimble-fingered – and stronger. She could feel the unused potential in her muscles – still flat, still lean, but infinitely stronger than before.

No one could deny, now, that she was better – more powerful – than her pathetic sister or her decrepit mother.

The voices sounded again, louder, more urgent – then distraught. Screaming in anguish.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, throwing her reflection a reluctant glance. So they'd found the babies. The hunters would be looking for her soon, once they shook off the shock. They may not be particularly clever, but they would soon realise who hadn't returned to the cave – who had been seen near each of the children before they disappeared earlier that morning.

With another careless sigh, Maya emptied the water back into the river; effortlessly shredded the willow shoots woven into a basket, then threw them in the briskly flowing water too.

She stood; the motion smooth, graceful, as contained as those of the great lions of the plains that her clan avoided and respected.

Taking a single moment to listen to her surroundings and determine that most of her clan was still in the clearing where she'd left the bodies, Maya turned and began a steady lope in the opposite direction, marvelling at the speed she could attain even at this relaxed pace.

She was light on her feet, she noticed. Not even their best trackers would be able to follow her path; she barely disturbed the earth as she ran.

Curiosity ate at her. Never one to deny herself anything, Maya willingly gave in and began to _really_ run, sprinting, pushing to see exactly how fast she could go.

It was wonderful. Exhilarating – she was faster than the birds that swept overhead; faster than the lion or its prey.

She was powerful, she was beautiful, and she was going to live forever.


End file.
